


everything that shines

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 18:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: It was a pleasure to know Mohamed Salah. Nothing more, nothing less. And the first time he stopped to acknowledge it, late one night when his bedroom was dark and sleep wasn't coming, a thrill shot up his spine and he thought,oh - where did that come from?





	everything that shines

**Author's Note:**

> so, when i was vulnerable and sick at the weekend, i read a salah/vvd fic on here and... i couldn't get it out of my head – kudos to the person who wrote it. these two are well and truly under my skin, so i had to write this and get it out in the world so i wasn't the only person so emo about it. i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> thank you for reading x

There are very few things that have managed to throw Virgil's life off course.

First, it was his family; his father and the disapproving glare that seemed to be permanently etched onto his face, sharp as a dagger and aimed at Virgil, all the time. It was _don't waste your life on pointless dreams, son_ and _you're not good enough to become a professional footballer, Virgil_ and _moving to Scotland? What do you think you'll achieve there?_

All that hatred and resentment, stiff in the line of his father's shoulders and unwavering. The move to Celtic was a welcome one, but not even eight hundred miles and the North Sea was enough to shake it out of his mind. It was still plastered across his back, seven white letters that beared the weight of the animosity. It made him feel heavy, limbs slow and loping and begging for something to change.

The transition from van Dijk to Virgil was an easy one. One defined his family: tension pulled taut like an elastic band about to snap, and the action would sting for years. The other defined him, and him alone: tall and strong, Dutch, a centre back filled with determination and the drive to be better. Not only in football, but in life, because he would die before he became even half the man his father was.

Virgil took him to places that his family name never could. Southampton was a stepping stone, because England was where he wanted to be. It was the right colour and the right league, but the wrong end of the country. The accent grated against his ears and the people were hard faced, and months of stepping stones stretched into years.

After the sixteen month mark, he started to think his father was right.

His skin felt too tight and his palms were itching, lungs burning with the need to get away. Southampton was good but it wasn't _enough_. He was stagnating, not getting worse but definitely not improving, and he ached for a challenge. A club that would make him fight for survival, clawing his way to the top and staying there. 

When he put in the transfer request, he only had one city in mind. It wasn't betrayal or disloyalty that made him do it, but the red and white striped shirt had started to feel too small and suffocating, like the seams were about to split any second. Hearing the rumours that that one club wanted him too - well, it made him breathe again. Crisp, cold air; like seeing snow for the first time, or hearing the birds chirp upon the sunrise.

It cost him his place on the first team, but it was more than worth it.

Liverpool was another thing that sent him off kilter. His improvement was instantaneous, and nine months into his contract, he became a name. One that people spoke about with a smile on their faces, fans in red shirts finally seeing a glimmer of hope. A simple clearance had thousands of voices roaring, and a header into the back of the net earned him a song. His name was belted across the stands of Anfield, and suddenly, van Dijk wasn't the weight of the world anymore. His shoulders were drawn back, but this time, instead of tension, it was - pride.

And with Liverpool came the final thing that made him spiral. A bouncy personality packed into a strong, compact frame; all five foot nine of Mohamed Salah muscling his way into Virgil's mind. 

It was a pleasure, at first. A pleasure to be able to play alongside one of the greatest talents of this generation, a goal scoring extraordinaire full of flair and bringing a buzz with him wherever he went. His enthusiasm was infectious, and he had worked so hard to get here - travelling for hours every day just to be able to train at a worthy facility. Millions of people around the world watched on their televisions, from their sofas, but Virgil was one of the lucky few that got to see him from a matter of yards away.

Their friendship was an easy one to fall into. Mo was constantly laidback and relaxed; he liked to smile, and Virgil liked to make him smile. He laughed at Virgil's shitty jokes and punched him on the arm when they were particularly bad, and he grinned with his whole face, teeth bared and eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed and rounded.

Enough to light up a whole room.

They shared the same passion, too. Striving to be better, and do better, to reach for higher than what they were given and what was expected. To mean anything, something, to mean more to club and country and fans, and at the same time - to be them. Unique and individual, unforgettable. Legends in their own right, liver birds tattooed onto their chests, onto their hearts. Bleeding Liverpool red for the rest of time.

They talked about it, sometimes - hushed confessions between drills in training, Mo's eyes bright but the line of his mouth tense. A sincerity about him that made Virgil swell with pride, because his friend was getting better and better every single day, but never slacked. Determination and hope, threaded into the one thing that kept them together, looped around their wrists and keeping them close. If they were going to do this - to train and survive and _fight_ \- then they were going to do it side by side.

Liverpool had taken a chance on both of them, and they were never going to throw that away.

The feelings slammed into him like a brick to the chest, unwanted and unwelcome, during the Arsenal game. First, it was an initial flash of rage when he could see Sokratis getting in Mo's face, shoulders squared and teeth snapping, from fifty yards up the pitch. Mo shrugged it off, sidestepped the defender and took his place at the spot, paying no mind to the blue shirts behind him.

He scored, of course, and naively, Virgil thought that would be the end of it. Stupid stupid stupid, because Arsenal were known for their tempers, and - well, for never letting things lie.

The three short bursts of the half time whistle shattered the thoughts in his head like a crystal glass, and he flinched, even as he was jogging towards the tunnel. Towards _Mo_. And Sokratis was still there; still spitting furiously about diving and cheating. Mo looked tired, eyes cast to the side and the sleeves of his undershirt pulled over fingers, but he didn't react. He never did.

Somewhere between shouldering his entire body in between the two players and snapping at Sokratis to back off, he felt Mo's fingers on the small of his back, gentle and tentative, but the touch was warm. Virgil's muscles relaxed immediately, inch by inch until his only concern was Mohamed Salah; five foot nine, goal scoring extraordinaire.

It was a slow revelation: fire spreading through his veins, a lion in his belly unfurling like it was waking up in the sun, stretching to a roar, and through all of it, one word: _mine_. The protectiveness was fierce and unwavering, and every time Virgil curled his fingers around the ball of Mo's shoulder, he was certain it was coming off of his palms in waves.

It grew stronger and steadier every single day until there was no denying it. Consuming him, but in the best way, because Virgil was watching and taking it all in and grinning through it all, because it was a pleasure to know Mohamed Salah. Nothing more, nothing less. And the first time he stopped to acknowledge it, late one night when his bedroom was dark and sleep wasn't coming, a thrill shot up his spine and he thought, _oh - where did that come from?_

But he wasn't stupid. Mo wasn't the first man his eyes had lingered over for a little too long, but he was the first one with a smile like that. He was the first one with a delighted laugh that Virgil could hear in his head for days, the first one who really understood Virgil, the first one that _mattered_.

And that changed things.

Their first kiss was hesitant, but it felt so right. It was Virgil’s fingers in Mo’s beard and Mo’s arms around Virgil’s neck. It was chapped lips and soft movements, chaste and quick, hearts in mouths and toes curling. It was everything Virgil expected, and yet somehow, at the same time – so much more. 

All of those things may have shaken up Virgil’s life; turning his world inside and out until his core balance was all off, but eventually, they lead to this moment. A single moment of significance where Virgil felt complete: contentment and happiness settling in his bones, mind calm and clear, feeling strong and sure and so _himself_. He’d never had that before. Maybe those things were sent to test him, to help him grow. Just so he could reach this moment. Just so he could live in it. 

This moment goes as follows: Mo’s knees are either side of Virgil’s thighs, straddling his lap as his hands tangle in his hair. Virgil's fingers are biting into the meat of Mo's hips, hard enough to bruise, enough that he'll be able to feel it for days. _Mine_ , Virgil thinks absently, mind fogged with want. _All mine_.

Mo kisses him, licks down into his mouth with a gentleness that makes something tender spread across Virgil's chest. Mo’s palm is curved around the back of his neck; a constant steadying pressure that grounds Virgil, when he feels like he could float up, up and away. The way Mohamed makes him feel is dangerous. Too much of it, and he's not sure it's something he'll ever get over.

“Virg,” Mo says, pulling away from the kiss. His voice breaks on a gasp when Virgil bites gently at the muscle of his throat, tongue soothing over the spot seconds later. His head falls back, even as he struggles to keep concentration, and he tightens his grip on Virgil's neck. “Virg - what is this?”

They haven't had this conversation yet, but Virgil has been expecting it for weeks. He has thought about it over and over again, formulating all the answers he could give in his mind until he settled on the perfect one, and now, he knows he's ready. He hides his smile in the curve of Mo's shoulder and brings him closer, until they're pressed together at every point possible.

“I don't know,” he says quietly, dragging his nose through the bristles of Mo's beard. There are millions of ways he could have answered this, but this is the only one that was honest. The only one he can really sum it all up with. “It's just - us.”

Mo breathes out heavily through his nose, a rush of air that Virgil can feel against his skin. It's not the answer Mo was looking for, but before he has a chance to push it, Virgil angles his head up again and kisses him soundly. When he pulls back, Mo's eyes are brighter than the stars and his cheeks are dimpled with the force of holding back a grin.

Mohamed Salah; five foot nine, goal scoring extraordinaire, and all that he is is silent and soft under Virgil's touch 

“It's just us,” Virgil repeats. The question is still heavy in the air, in the set of Mo's shoulders, so he drops chaste kisses across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, up to his forehead. He pulls back, makes sure that Mo is looking at him before he speaks and that he has got his undivided attention. “And I love you.”


End file.
